


It's Where My Demons Hide

by Mara_DragonMaster



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Past, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Redemption, Responsibility, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mara_DragonMaster/pseuds/Mara_DragonMaster
Summary: A slight alternate to events from where Herrick (brought back to life) is brought to the house, and jumping from the scene where George tells Mitchell to leave him alone to the end. What if things had been different? What if someone had believed Mitchell when he said Herrick was just as evil as ever? What would have happened if they all had learned about the Box 20 murders? How are they going to stay together as a family and, in the end, can they save Mitchell?
Relationships: John Mitchell/Annie Sawyer, Nina Pickering/George Sands
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been a while since I posted, but this one wouldn't let me go. I love the UK Being Human show (seasons 1-3), but it did irritate me how little they listened to Mitchell the last season, how hard they were on him. I certainly don't condone the killing, but they could have been more understanding of how hard it was for him. And the idiot could have explained a little more, too, but oh well. And Nina could have been a little nicer; I wanted to like her, but she was so antagonistic! *sigh* They were only human after all, I guess.
> 
> So anyway, this is my adjustment. Each chapter is a bit of a one-shot, but they will all string together nicely to a complete story by the end. I have no idea how many chapters it will be.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> ~Mara

She heard the loud sound of flesh on flesh and came running, only to see the door shut behind George. She couldn't see them anymore, but she could hear them – voices raised and angry. So angry.

" _Move._ "

" _I'm not letting you do it._ "

" _Oh, what do you even CARE?_ " Mitchell's voice rose, furious and – and something else. " _You killed him once already!_ "

George's voice rose too, matching the fury and then some. " _What do I care? I never wanted to be a killer of anything or anybody, but I did it._ "

" _I know – I know. And you did it for me_ …"

" _I did it for US, and I'm doing THIS for US_." George's tone quieted, firm and insistent. " _Herrick is a vampire, but he doesn't know he's one. He doesn't remember all the things he's done. When he DID remember he was punished, but now he doesn't. Now he's just ordinary_."

" _He was NEVER ordinary – never! Listen to me George, listen to me really good, I'm not doing this on a WHIM_."

The desperation in those words made her heart clench, and Annie pressed her ear to the door. That was the something besides the anger she had heard in his voice before – desperation. Her brows furrowed, memories of their encounters with Herrick pressing forward, the knowledge – the little she possessed – of Herrick and Mitchell's history at the forefront, and the niggling doubt she had felt before grew, suddenly and exponentially.

What if they were wrong?

They had known Herrick very little. But Mitchell knew him intimately, as only a sire and an heir can. From the moment he had died to his first breath of a vampire, to the day George had torn that vampire apart, Mitchell had been under Herrick's boot in some way or form. He knew Herrick better than anyone in the world. Herrick had attempted to murder him, just last year.

What if he was right?

" _It's costing me. You have no IDEA what it's costing me_."

" _What are you talking about_?"

Her thoughts stuttered to a stop and her ears sharpened.

" _If it's costing you so much, then don't do it_." George was pleading, but Annie now wondered if he actually knew what he was pleading for. He was the one among them who still had a shred of innocence, still full of idealistic hopes and beliefs about the world, but now – in this moment – Annie wondered if what he was asking was too much.

" _I have to. I have to, for you, for – for my friends, for the good of humanity."_

That was enough. She knew too much of Mitchell to ignore the sharp doubt and fear that was now in her. A jerk he was, to be sure, and he'd been a right bloody one lately, but when it came to vampires she'd learned to trust him.

She slipped back, to a closet where they'd shoved the broken pieces of wood from the decimated chair. She chose the sharpest one she could find – it only took a second – and then she went back, passing the closed door, eyes sharp on the stairs, movements stealthy as she walked towards them and up, a foot on a step, another, another.

" _I'm not asking YOU to do anything_!"

" _You ARE. You are asking me to look away and I can't look away anymore because I HAVE looked away_ …"

Their voices faded to an indistinct sound, rising and falling in pitch and volume, but Annie was no longer listening.

She had to know for certain.

She had promised to protect him.

The room was silent, but for the quiet clattering of the small electric train, running, running. Her heart was hammering, her steps slow as she stepped into the open doorway. His eyes rose and met hers, and in that instant she felt her blood freeze.

"You really intrigue me, little lady." He said, voice slithering, just as it had _before_.

She took another step in, and another, then stopped, staring at him, unblinking. He rose to his feet and came towards her, a smile on his face, his eyes sharp and calculating and curious.

"She couldn't see you!" he said, tilting his head, circling her. "I can see. Those others, they can see you. That idiot woman, she couldn't, why?"

The coiling anger began to burn. "She's not an idiot." She murmured, the words flat on her tongue. "She was nice."

"Nice?" he snorted, stopping. The smile had left. "Who wants to be nice?"

 _He was the same_. "I do."

He sneered in true, dark puzzlement. "Why? I mean, nice isn't really working for you, is it?" he began to circle her again. "You don't really fit in. Nobody really listens. You're a bit…" he searched for the word, stopped and looked at her, raising his eyebrows, and then he grinned. "Peripheral. Like a regimental mascot."

"I fit in just fine." She bit out, and she met his mocking gaze with her own. "And you are going to have to work a _lot_ harder than that to get to me."

A heartbeat passed, and then he stepped into her space. "Just tell me how you do it."

"Guess."

"Give me a clue, little lady. Chuck me a _bone_."

The tone of his voice had dropped, like gravel in a grave, his eyes dark and sharp with a cold, calculating hunger. "What are you?"

He _was_ the same. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. He would discover his vampirism, she knew, and then – oh, then.

Her fingers tightened around the stake, pressed up between her arm and her side, and she pursed her lips, as if thinking. "What am I." she mused, and then she brought her gaze to his. They were close enough. So close their shirt touched. "Onto you. That's what I am. I'm onto you, _little man_."

The stake sank deep into his chest, deep, deep. He gasped and tried to shout, did shout, but it was a choking, strangled, pitiful sound. Annie pushed harder, further, driving it as deep as she could, letting every memory of pain he'd brought to them give her the strength, letting the desperation of Mitchell's voice halt any hesitation.

She could not let such a monster loose again.

He might be without his memories, but a monster he still was.

 _He must have been a cruel man even before he was vampire_.

He gasped again, a horrid, drawn-in sound, collapsing on his back, scratching and scrabbling at her and the wood in his chest. His skin began to turn grey, cracks covering his skin as it dried and peeled, eyes and mouth wide in terror, and then –

Then he was gone. Nothing but dust, smoke, and a pile of clothes.

Annie let go of the stake and let it drop, a bloody part of the empty, crumpled shirt, and she stood. She was shaking, breaths coming in little gasps.

She'd killed someone.

Disgust and horror trickled through her veins, and yet in her heart she could not regret it. Did not. And that was what reassured her that it had been the right thing to do – she let herself think of Mitchell's horrified, no – terrified expression when they'd first brought Herrick back to the house, how he'd stood there, frozen. How he'd been so desperate, breaking their furniture in his panic for a weapon.

How he'd laid in his own pool of blood, dying, when Herrick had staked _him_.

This was right.

She wasn't sure George or Nina would agree, but she had sworn to protect them – she had sworn to protect Mitchell (however horrid he'd been lately), and she had.

She turned and left. She walked down the stairs. The voices were silent, the door still shut. She sat on the bottom of the stairs, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

Hours passed.

It was a uniqueness to ghosts, that hours can pass like a stream. Or not seem to pass at all, just suddenly be gone. The morning light streamed in, and the others were beginning to stir. She heard someone shuffling to the bathroom, heard the door close and the water run. Heard movement in the kitchen.

That door was still closed.

A burning need to see him suddenly filled her chest, and Annie stood, hands shaking anew, and she strode forward and flung open the door. Mitchell was sitting on the bed, head in his hands, and she wanted to pick up the pillow and start beating him with it. Over and over again, as if the feather down could batter some sense into his thick, useless head!

He stirred when his door banged open, and she raised her hand. "Before you say anything I haven't come in here to do the whole crying thing," she stormed, "and I'd rather not talk to you _at all_ because you have been a five-star ***head tonight and – but – what's happened to your face?"

Dried blood stained his top lip and down the side, the bridge of his nose split and scabbed over. "George hit me." He mumbled, head sunk back into his hand.

"Good." She snapped, ire rising again. "Good for George. Saves me the job."

"It's like being kicked by a bastard horse." He growled, and threw his head up, eyes wild and furious. "And get this, right! He says if I stake Herrick, he won't be my friend anymore." He shook his fist, punching it through the air in the direction of the door. "I mean why is _he_ allowed to forget, and _I can't_? Huh? Why him and not me?"

Not just fury. Grief. He looked – she swallowed. He looked anguished.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind!" His fingers were in his hair, and then he was gesturing again. "I – I'm so tired and I'm – I'm losing everything."

_If you would trust your friends, instead of pushing us away, perhaps you wouldn't be._

"Yeah." She murmured. "Yeah. Certainly looks like it."

He didn't move, didn't look up. He looked _miserable_. Her anger was still hot, she still wanted to scold him from one end of the house to the other, but she realized also how much of his misery was probably the cause of it. And she remembered why she had done what she had done, of his fear, of when Herrick had staked him – his own sire.

She needed to tell him.

She could give him that, at least.

Before she could open her mouth, before she could utter a word, there was a scream from upstairs, an angry bellow, a clattering down the stairs and then George was there – a raging, crying, angry George, bowling Mitchell over and bludgeoning him over and over with white-knuckled fists.

"I warned you!" he screamed as Mitchell curled up, arms raised to ward off the blows. "I told you not to! I told you! I thought you were my friend! I thought that meant something to you!"

"George!" Annie shrieked, grabbing at him, trying to avoid getting hit herself, all but throwing herself on George's back.

Footsteps sounded behind them and then Nina was there, helping her, grabbing at George's shirt, yelling at him to stop. Between the two of them they finally got him off, pulling him back, and Nina shoved her hand on his heaving chest. "George! Enough! What is wrong?"

"I'll tell you!" he shouted, voice an octave too high, his face red, fury and betrayal in his eyes. "I just took the tray up to Herrick, only he's not there! You know what _is_ there? _His bloody clothes and a bloody stake_!"

Mitchell was carefully pushing himself up, one hand on the corner of the bed, blood on his lips and his eyebrow. He touched the corner of his mouth and winced; it was already swelling. "I didn't go up there…"

"Just one more! It's always just one more!"

"I swear it!"

" _LIAR_!"

"He didn't, I did!" Annie screamed, hands in fists, shaking.

The silence that followed opened her eyes, and she looked at them all, each one, staring at her in shock and disbelief.

"I did it." She said again, straightening. "I staked Herrick."

"Annie…" Mitchell whispered.

"Why?" George whined, his sense of betrayal now on her.

"I was going to tell you all this morning, that Mitchell was right about him!" She swung and pointed up at the stairs, her anger from before rolling in her gut again. "He's still who he was! So I did it."

"You couldn't…" George was still in disbelief, and then he balked under her blazing eyes.

"I think about what and who I love, and I think about them in danger…" her teeth bared, tears standing in her eyes, and her vision swam. "And I could tear this bloody house down with my teeth! You have no _idea_ how strong I am." She turned her gaze to Mitchell, still on the floor, one hand on the bed, staring at her with wide eyes. "So I did it. Right in the heart."

"He didn't have his memories!" George protested, and she whirled back on him.

"He was evil!" she shrieked. "Memories don't make a person good or bad! Some people are rotten, George, and they don't need to be a vampire for it! Owen didn't!"

Silence met her declaration, and she shifted on her feet, veins thrumming.

"Yeah." She nodded. "You see? Some people just _are_. He was a bloody monster before he was ever a vampire, he didn't need fangs for that. And he was just as wicked now as he ever was, I saw it and I knew it. I went upstairs last night, while you guys were arguing, and I saw it."

"Annie…" George closed his eyes.

"And who are you to judge, George?" she shot back. "How much time have you spent with him, except to bring him tea? He knew I was a ghost, he knew it, and he didn't care about impressing _me_. He was going to hurt you all, first chance he had, and you were too bloody full of your big ideals to see it."

"I wanted to believe that someone could change, if given the chance." George murmured, rubbing his face.

"And what do you call Mitchell?" she demanded, throwing a hand in the huddled vampire's direction.

Mitchell shrank back at the attention suddenly turned his way, eyes flicking towards George as if waiting to be attacked again.

"He was Herrick's!" Annie pressed. She was still angry at Mitchell, but Oh was she now angry at George. At Nina. At herself. So wrapped up in their so-called humanism and kindness that they ignored what was so obvious. "He was turned by Herrick, _raised_ by Herrick. And look at him! He's not the monster the others are, though by all rights he should be. Didn't you tell me? Didn't you tell me, when we first lived together, that you'd forgotten what the others were like? Predators, every inch of them just hunger and fury. You wondered how much energy it took him not to be like that."

It hurt. It hurt so much, her throat tightening, and she dashed away moisture from her cheek, angry at everything. So very, very angry. "When have we _ever_ listened to him? Huh? When have we ever taken his warnings seriously? Shouldn't we have understood when we brought Herrick back? Who knew Herrick the most, out of all of us? _Why_ didn't we listen?" She opened and closed her fists. "I know he's been a major ***head, but that doesn't make him _wrong_."

Nina turned around and left, silent, expressionless. George stood still, face pale, hands still clenched. Finally, he too turned and left, and it was silent, and they were alone.

Annie's breaths were deep and hard, trying to calm the trembling in her core. A hand, a real, warm hand, touched hers, fingers wrapping around, holding.

She couldn't look at him. Not yet. "Let go of my hand."

The touch disappeared, and she heard him move, heard the bed shift as he sat on it. "I said some things I didn't mean." He murmured.

_You want every corner of me, and I just don't want to give it._

_I was in love with the idea of being a hero, a rescuer, your savior. That's what I was in love with, not you._

"Then why the hell would you say them?" Tears clogged her throat and her nose.

He stared at her, bloody, sweaty, empty. He looked tired, and she felt like she didn't know anymore what or who he was. What _they_ were.

"Because…" he lowered his eyes and shook his head. His voice shook. "You and me, it's for eternity. _Really_ forever."

She waited.

"I – I was running scared, a typical _useless_ man. But…" he finally looked up, and the look in his eyes broke her heart. "I don't want to live without you. I _can't_ live without you."

She looked away, trying to stop her ears to his whispered 'I can't', her chin shaking. He had come for her, to hell and back, and she still didn't understand all of what was happening (though she was determined, now, to drag it out of him), but she loved him. She loved him, and he loved her, as crap as he was at showing it sometimes.

A tear slipped past her lids and fell down her cheek, and she glanced at him, and saw the tears now on his face, and that was it. She stepped closer, hands out, his hands reaching for her, and he buried his face in her belly, his arms tight around her, hands holding her as if she might disappear again.

She covered him with her arms, one around his shoulders, a hand in his hair, holding him close, feeling his tears soak her shirt even though he made no sound except a few harsh breaths.

What weight was he holding that was burying him so low?

"Is he really gone?"

The mumbled words, spoken into her shirt, were hard to hear – but she heard them, and felt the tightness of his hands as he asked. She wondered what being Herrick's heir had been like, what it must have been like to be followed and stalked, trying to get away only to find him there – again.

Her eyes lifted to the stairs, and she remembered the look of shock and horror on the greying face, cracking like glass, puffing into smoke.

"Yes," she murmured.

His hold grew tighter, and if her shirt grew wet anew, she wasn't going to say anything.

* * *

George sat at the table, hands around a mug, staring vacantly into space.

He and Nina had argued. She still didn't understand – refused to, actually, if he was being honest. And honest was what he knew he had to be now, after what had happened. Because Annie – sweet, gentle, non-violent Annie – had staked Herrick. Staked him without a second thought.

Perhaps, he mused, he had been too caught up in his ideals to see things as they really were.

How many times had Herrick smiled at him, looking as innocent as a child, and yet whenever Mitchell was near his friend came away grim and dark?

Had Herrick been playing him?

A sigh escaped him, and George dropped his head. Yes, he admitted, he had, and it filled him with remorse and humiliation. Did he want his child to know that a person can be forgiven? Yes.

But he supposed he aught to teach his child to recognize when someone might be forgiven, but not trusted even with a twelve-meter pole.

A chair shifted beside him, and he didn't need to look up to know who it was. "I supposed I owe him an apology." He murmured.

"He owes us one, too." Her voice was rough, as though she'd been crying.

He looked up. She was leaning back in the chair, her arms crossed, her mouth tight. Her eyes were red, her shirt a mess. Patches of damp, and blood. "Is he all right?"

"You certainly did his face in." she said.

George grimaced.

"You have to let up on him about being a vampire, George. He can't help what he is anymore than you can."

That brought a flash of temper, and he rounded on her. " _Don't_ compare what we are."

"Well he can't." She wasn't letting it go. "Tell me, George, can you control yourself when you're the wolf?"

"Annie…"

"Can you?"

"It's not the same. It's once a month, I keep myself safe so I don't hurt anyone."

"Then should we just lock Mitchell down there for the rest of his life? Because he doesn't have a day, George Sands, it's every day. It's every damn day for him, and I'm tired of you being a bloody jerk to him about it."

"Oh, _I'm_ the bloody jerk?"

"You're _both_ bloody jerks, and I've about had it!" Annie covered her face, scrubbing it roughly, and then she dropped her hands into her lap and sighed. "I'm not making excuses for his behavior, George. But I do think we could offer him a little more sympathy and understanding. You know, like a drug addict." She shrugged, eyes slipping to side the way they did when she felt awkward. "I mean – it's got to be a bit like someone trying to get off meth walking around with meth _everywhere_. With meth mates stalking you and trying to force it on you."

"I never thought of it _quite_ like that." George groused, lifting his cup and taking an _awful_ sip of lukewarm tea.

"Well, maybe we should." She insisted. "And please, give me that. It makes me sick watching you drink it. I'll make a fresh one."

George let her snag the mug from his hand, but still didn't look at her, still rebelliously not wanting to admit any fault.

"Is it like that?"

He turned, and saw Nina standing there in the doorway.

"Is that what it's like, George?" she asked again.

"Like what?"

"Vampires. Drug addicts."

He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Yes, it is." Annie said, thunking his mug on the counter top, a new tea bag in it. "Remember, George? All hunger and violence, all the time – and when they drink, how high they get?"

Nina's eyes closed, and George was ready to tell Annie to shut it, but then Nina opened her eyes again and there was a thoughtful look on her face. "I've seen drug addicts, George." She murmured. "When it's friends and family that are the problem – also in bad situations, also into drugs – it's almost impossible for them to stay clean."

George leaned back in his chair. "You don't like Mitchell."

"No, I don't." Nina admitted, stepping slowly in. "But… I've always thought of everything he does as a free choice. Like he's like you and I." she sat down in Annie's chair, hands folded tightly in her lap, and she glanced between them. "But he's not, is he?"

"You were listening."

"Yes, I was. Am I right? Is it that hard?"

George pulled in and released a deep breath. "Maybe."

"You have no idea." Annie muttered, turning off the kettle as it began to shriek. She poured the water into the mug. "Even too much snogging can set it off."

"What? EW!" George exclaimed, but Nina shushed him with her hand.

"What?"

Annie blinked, apparently realizing what she'd just said. "Oh – I just – well, once we tried to – I mean, it was right after we became an item – we were trying to figure out, you know – I mean, a ghost – and, well, it just…" she stopped, brows puckered as she tried to figure out how much to tell them. "It just happened." She finally blurted. "Being a vampire, you know. He pulled himself back, he didn't do anything, but it just _happened_." She looked down, dunking the bag over and over. "Not like he _chose_ to vamp out in the middle of a good snog."

Nina nodded, the intense thoughtfulness still on her face. George recognized it as her nurse-face, the face she got when there was a difficult case she had to try and figure out.

"I see." She murmured.


	2. Chapter 2

He felt sick. He stared at the newspaper clippings, and it was as if he was reading about someone else. Except he knew he wasn't. He could feel it, that part of him, that part of him that was terrified of death and would do anything to avoid it. That part of him that very much felt that eye for eye was applicable – even if he was too much of a coward when it was turned on him.

He could give, but he could not take.

Unbidden, memories of his early years with Herrick came, more clear than his memories of before. Before the mud and blood, before the bombs and bullets.

Why?

Why were his most shameful, evil days the ones he could remember with the best clarity?

He should have died back then. He should never have made that deal with Herrick – the deal that had been broken a moment later, his men lying beneath him in a pile of death, and he – he still breathing.

He should never have gotten involved with them again. Never tried to change anything, never taken over. After Herrick's first death at George's hands he should have run, run far away, hidden as deep as he could.

He should have told George and Annie what had happened, about the explosion, about it all, and they could have helped him. They'd helped him a million times before, why hadn't he gone to them then? Why had he listened to Daisy, gone with Daisy? He knew better. He always knew better.

So many should haves.

But Annie had saved him yet again – saved him as only she could, doing something he wished she'd never had to do. She'd killed for him. His tormentor was gone for good, and could not be brought back this time.

And now – oh, but now.

He'd already committed one of the greatest crimes of his long, bloody career. And he hadn't had Herrick along to blame for it.

How could he ever atone?

They treated him differently, now. Not better, not worse, but differently. There was no more yelling (of that he was grateful) but instead there was silence. Looks. Awkward moments passing in the hall, staring at each other, and then George, or Nina, or Annie turning and going away, as if they no longer knew what to say to him.

Annie sat with him at night, sometimes. Knees drawn up, shoulder pressed to his. They were silent then, too, but it was a comforting silence.

He'd meant it when he told her that they were forever. An immortal vampire and a ghost? It would never end.

He was contaminating them all.

Nina, at least, was apart from it. She'd never cared for him, hated him even, and he didn't blame her. In fact – as desperate as he'd been before to escape – he felt now that when it happened, it would be fitting. Of course he wanted to keep that day as far away as possible, he still had a healthy survival instinct, but it would be fitting.

He just had to keep it from happening.

And then – as if he couldn't ever catch a break – then that woman showed up, asking questions about the Box 20 Murders, and now he's connected. Someone had given his name, and Annie was going twelve directions trying to find out who and also trying to prove it wasn't him.

The comforting silence was no longer comforting, nor silent.

Now her presence was like a brand on his soul, reminding him of what he had done and how unworthy he was of her.

She wanted him to go to the police, frantic that he explain so that he could be cleared, somehow oblivious to the fact that a vampire in a police station was impossible and dangerous. She was too desperate, and every time he explained about the photos and security cameras she got angry.

He knew she was scared.

So was he.

He was terrified when that lady kept poking around. Terrified when she found the notebook, which he'd forgotten open on his bed and she had found. Terrified as he took it from her, then burned it page by page late that night when everyone was asleep.

He was so tired. So angry. So scared.

He hated himself.

But he came from more than a hundred years of looking out for just himself, whatever that meant, and habits were hard to break.

Annie was furious with him for giving the lady the runaround, but he was too frightened. Too angry that she wouldn't let it go.

Too angry at himself.

And then she found out.

It was wrecked. It was all over. She demanded that he turn himself in, but he couldn't – and somehow he couldn't make her understand. If he turned himself in it was the end for not just him but everyone.

He'd never cursed his vampire genes more. How much simpler it would be if he was human and could just let them arrest him.

* * *

They came for him, but he got away. Out the back, through them, despite Annie screaming at him to give up and give in.

Prison was not going to fix what he did. It would make it worse, so much worse. And he couldn't – he couldn't do that to George and Nina. He couldn't let the world discover Vampires and Werewolves. It would ruin his friends' lives.

He ran.

He ran and he ran.

He ran East.

He found a car, running just outside of a pub, and he took it. Without a thought, with a twinge of remorse. He left all the cash in his wallet where the car had been, and fled, driving as if the devil himself was after him.

Annie was right. He had to give those people justice. But not like that.

He couldn't give Annie what she wanted. He couldn't give society what it wanted. But he could give what he could.

The white cliffs were beautiful, even in the gloom of evening. A few people were about, not close enough to see features or anything, but around. Taking walks, holding hands – normal, real people.

It was fitting, for him.

He stood at the top, looking down – down at the crashing waves. It was peaceful, quiet. He stood, letter crumpled in his hand, carefully folded, more carefully written.

The wind blew.

He pulled off his leather jacket, folded it carefully, and set it on the ground. He sat down, pulled off his shoes. Set them neatly on top of the jacket. Pulled off his socks, folded them (what a laugh, he'd never folded his socks in his life). Then he stood. He felt the piece of wood in his belt, a thick piece he'd found when he'd pulled over, looking for something, anything wood. He'd broken the end. It was sharp.

"'Scuse me?" An old man touched his elbow – face concerned, lined, worried, knowing. "It don't have to be this way, lad. You're still young."

He must have come up while he undressed, but Mitchell didn't care. He just smiled. "No, not really."

"Oh, come on." The old hand was warm on his arm, rough from years, rubbing up and down. "I know things look bleak, but in another day or two it won't be so bad. You'll see."

Mitchell turned, letter still crumpled in his hand. He was going to leave it on his shoes, but he held it out instead. "Could you take this?" he asked. His voice was weak, like his throat was failing.

"What is it?" The old man took it, staring down at the folded paper. "It's addressed to the police!"

"Yeah." Mitchell smiled, sadly, wearily. "Make sure they get it."

"But…"

He didn't wait. Didn't hesitate. He ran, as he'd always done. Into the air, three steps, the shout of the old man an echo behind him. Air around him, rushing, rushing, freezing, no substance to it, nothing to it at all. His dead heart was in his throat, a moment of panic shooting tears to his eyes, and then he hit. It was like hitting ice, hard and frozen, shattering his legs and driving the breath from his lungs.

When his senses returned to him he was beginning to float up again, and he pulled the stick from his belt. His hands were numb, and nothing felt real – and yet it was all so crystal clear now.

Without thought. Again. Without hesitation.

He gasped; wood separated muscle, split ribs. He felt his heart pumping frantically against it, and then – then it all began to fade away, to fade, like he was dissolving into the foam.

_I'm sorry, George. I'm sorry, Annie. I'm finally protecting you. I hope you understand._

They were his last thoughts.

* * *

George came home to find Annie in hysterics, curled in a corner of the kitchen, hands on her ears, sobbing.

He closed the door, and rushed forward. "Annie?"

She looked up at him, face blotched and wet, and sobbed, mouth opening without sound.

"What happened?" George asked, grasping her shoulders. "Annie! What happened?"

"Mitchell…" she gasped. "Mitchell…"

His mouth went dry. "What? Mitchell what? What's happened?"

"He did it…" she choked, fingers curling into George's sleeve, desperation in her eyes. "He did it, George, and the police came, and he ran – he ran from them and I don't know where he's gone!"

George stared at her, and his heart sank. "They found out."

"Yes, they…" she stopped. Her eyes grew wide, and she blinked, shaking her head. "Wait – what? You – you knew?"

He didn't answer, but he did look up towards the door. "We need to find him."

" _George!_ " she shrieked.

"Annie, if the police catch him first it's over, it's over for him, for me, for Nina…"

"He killed all those people!" she wailed, not understanding, and he could understand. He could. But after Herrick, after what he had come to realize then, he couldn't blame his friend. He knew Mitchell had done awful things in his past, had even enjoyed it at one point, but he'd also been there when the guilt and the goodness had been too much, when his friend had sat weeping all night, silent and grim. He'd been there when Mitchell had played the go-between, trying somehow to play both sides and keep those he loved safe. He had to believe that there had been more to the Box 20 murders than he knew, because he _knew_ Mitchell. He was moody, he was an arse, but he was at heart good, even if the vampire in him wasn't and sometimes got the better of him.

If, during a full moon, he had killed a camp full of people – he would hope that Mitchell would understand. Knew he would, actually. That it wasn't George, wasn't in his control, but was the monster in his skin.

He could do the same for Mitchell.

It didn't absolve what had happened. But he could try, anyway.

He tried explaining this to Annie, but he knew there wasn't time, and so he left her there, in the kitchen, still frantic and crying. He passed Nina on the walk and told her to go in to Annie.

Nina would not understand; he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Nina never would. Not fully. She'd been less hostile, it was true, since the incident with Herrick, but she still didn't truly understand.

His heart beat a thunderous cacophony in his chest and ears, pounded through his arms and legs. Panic clawed at his mind and heart.

Where had Mitchell gone? Had he been caught?

Where was he?

* * *

He searched all day, and all night. He'd found no sign of his friend, heard no news – good or bad. When he finally returned Nina and Annie were listening to the radio as well as watching the tv, seeing the news, hearing the report of the chase – seeing the sketch an artist had made of the wanted man. It wasn't Mitchell, but it was a close enough likeness that he would be recognized.

George rubbed his face, nerves feeling frayed and exposed.

The light of dawn was prickling in through the windows, and he hated it. Hated the light, though he had no clear reason why. Hated the sound of the radio, the voices going on and on about the dangerous murderer.

"I'll turn it off." Nina murmured.

"No!" he snapped. Across the tv was a headline, breaking news – the death of the Box 20 Murderer.

His knees went weak.

" _Police still haven't found the body of John Mitchell, who, according to eyewitness accounts, jumped of his own accord from the White Cliffs in Dover. A man spoke to him moments before, trying to help, but to no avail. John Mitchell left a letter in his care, asking him to deliver it to the police_."

"Oh no."

George couldn't look at Annie. Couldn't move.

"No – no – he wouldn't." she moaned, grabbing the back of a chair, her face pale. "Jumping wouldn't kill him, right? I mean he's – he's a vampire, vampires don't die from jumping. He couldn't, he couldn't be –"

Nina tried to touch his arm, but he pulled back. Turned and rubbed his face. "I – I can't – "

He couldn't what?

" _The letter, it seems, contains a confession, and an apology to the families of the Box 20 Massacre._ " An image appeared on the screen, crumpled paper, covered in Mitchell's own letters. George stared, reading even as the reporter narrated it.

_To those left behind,_

_There is nothing I can do to undo the pain I have caused. I killed those people, that day. The Box 20 Murders were my doing. I had suffered a personal grievance, and in my anger and hatred I did something unforgiveable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, but I give you my apology. If I could go back and undo what I did, I would._

_I wish I could pay for their deaths, but I can't. Nothing will cover what I've done. All I can do, is make sure it doesn't happen again._

_To those who thought they knew me – I am so sorry. I am so sorry. This should have happened a long time ago. This time, I'll make sure it sticks._

_J. Mitchell_

"No – no – George, it's not true." Annie was wilting, sinking to the floor, but George could not comfort her.

"What does he mean? He'll make sure it sticks?" Nina asked, her voice low, knowing but needing to hear it to understand it.

George pulled in a harsh, painful breath. "It means – he's truly gone." He felt frozen, moving without meaning to, turning, unblinking as he looked at the two people left in his life, staring at him as if he had all the answers. "It means he figured out how to give them justice – and keep us safe."

"So – he really did it." Nina murmured. "Those murders. He did them."

"Yeah." George laughed, a terrible thing to do – but it was without humor, without anything.

"Why?"

He looked her in the eye, looked at Annie, poor, heartbroken Annie – and he shrugged, his own heart crumbling within her. "I guess we'll never know."


End file.
